


The Care and Keeping of Ex-Imperials Who Need Coffee, a Nap, and a Hug in That Order

by akaparalian



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: 5+1 Things, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-20 10:37:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14259144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaparalian/pseuds/akaparalian
Summary: Five Ghost crew members who helped Alexsandr Kallus, and one who he helped in return.





	The Care and Keeping of Ex-Imperials Who Need Coffee, a Nap, and a Hug in That Order

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many, many thanks go to [LoveCrumb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovecrumb), who told me to write this and then held my hand while I did, all while writing [some really nice porn that you should all go read, too](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14284992). This literally wouldn't exist without her -- I'm not exaggerating that in any way. 
> 
> (Also: for what it's worth, these scenes are, in fact, in chronological order. )

1: Hera

* * *

There are roughly seven trillion things rushing through Hera’s mind as the _Ghost_ slips through hyperspace in their second jump after Atollon; her head is spinning, and now that the ship itself is taken care of, at least until it’s time to make the _next_ jump, she doesn’t have any idea where to go or what to do first.

No, that’s a lie: her first thought is _Kanan_ , _where’s Kanan?_ , just like it has been more or less consistently since they first met, way back when he was still a bartender and a roughneck and she was just eighteen and full of even more dangerous ideas and even less practicality than she is today. There are seven trillion things to do — people to check on, admirals to debrief, star charts to scan, supplies to catalogue, missions to plan to make up for what they’ve lost, informants to contact, and on and on and on — but in the wake of all that’s happened, with Thrawn’s horrible, oily voice still ringing in her head, she makes an executive decision, and she goes to find her support system.

She doesn’t quite get the chance to find him.

As soon as she presses the button in the wall panel and the door from the cockpit out into the hallway whooshes open, she’s met with a very different face: Agent (is he still ‘Agent’? What else should she call him?) Kallus is standing there, his own hand raised; clearly, he’d been about to open the door from the opposite side. She didn’t really get a good look at him before, after they picked him up, and she hasn’t seen him since, but _Force_ , has he seen better days; she almost wonders if that bruise is going to somehow deal permanent damage to his eye, it’s so bad.

“You’ve seen a medic, right?” she blurts automatically, before her brain can catch up with little things like _surely he has, it’s been hours_ and _this man has tried to kill you and your family_ and _even if he is or was Fulcrum, he hunted you, he_ tortured _Kanan_.

So maybe she still has a little bit of baggage to work through with their esteemed former Agent. She’s willing to bet they all do. She also knows that now is not the time to sort through all of it; there’ll be plenty of chances once they’re not all just on the other side of a devastating battle, surely.

It’s one thing, though, to hear about his defection from Sabine and Zeb and Ezra and Kanan — it’s another to finally face him, alone, up close and personal, herself.

By the time the rush of her thoughts catches up to the present moment, she realizes that Kallus is looking at her almost warily. _Smart guy_ , she thinks wryly; this is her ship, after all. Fulcrum or not, she’s the one with the authority to kick him off if she damn well wants to.

He hesitates a moment more, just sort of standing there awkwardly, before he finally says, “No. Not yet.”

She squints at him, propping one hand on her hip. Some of his cuts are still bleeding sluggishly, she can tell even standing still that he’s heavily favoring one leg, and while his eyes seem to be focusing okay, she’d be far from surprised if he doesn’t have at least a mild concussion.

“Any particular reason why not?” she asks slowly.

Kallus looks away, apparently unable to meet her eyes. “They were… occupied.”

And it’s funny — despite everything, despite the litany of reasons she should _still_ not trust him, the chorus of voices telling her that even now, spacing him probably wouldn’t be that much of an overreaction — despite _all_ of it, that pisses Hera off.

This man is injured. He’s saved her crew before, several times, individually and as a whole, and given them priceless information. It’s by his warning that they were prepared for the attack on Atollon at all. And he’s been badly hurt.

“Come on. Let’s get you taken care of,” she says briskly, squeezing past him to lead the way to the hold, where she knows a makeshift medical station has been set up. She doesn’t wait for him to follow, just trusts that he will — as a former Imperial, she figures he’s got to be better at doing what he’s told than pretty much anyone _else_ in the Rebellion — and sure enough, she hears his quiet footfalls behind her after a brief moment of uncertainty.

Maybe Kallus is telling the truth, and everyone really was ‘occupied’ earlier; honestly, with the number of people who were probably injured in the evacuation and the battle, she doesn’t doubt it. By the time the two of them get there, though, it’s completely deserted — even whoever had been pressed into service administering first aid must have already left. The medical supplies are still there, though.

Hmm. She has seven trillion things to do. This one seems as good a place to start as any.

“Sit,” she says, indicating a crate that’s a good height to serve as a makeshift exam table. (Judging by some rather worrying stains, she suspects that it already has.) Kallus sits, and says nothing, so Hera continues briskly, “I assume no one has checked you for a concussion?”

“No.” He pauses, takes a deep breath, and says, “Captain Syndulla, you don’t need to do this.”

“Someone does,” she informs him, not looking at him as she digs around for bacta patches and painkillers and anything else she thinks she could possibly need. She should probably splint that leg, too…

“I’m sure you have more important things to be doing; besides, I’m perfectly all right. None of my injuries are that severe —”

Hera spins around, arms full of supplies, and fixes him with a glare which she’s been reliably informed could stop a full-grown rancor in its tracks. Kallus, who, despite all of his various (and morally varied) accomplishments and abilities, is, in the end, still just a human, and doesn’t stand a chance. His mouth snaps shut with an audible click, and he holds completely still as she stalks back over to him and tries to decide where to start.

The little stuff first, maybe? It’ll make him easier to look at, at least, and also she could apply bacta in her sleep. On the other hand… he’d been limping pretty bad, and that bruising can’t exactly be comfortable, either.

She unscrews the lid of the bottle of painkillers and pours a few out into her palm, then holds them out to him wordlessly. He takes them just as silently and swallows them dry — which is good, because she doesn’t have any water to offer him anyway.

Satisfied, she sets the bottle down and reaches for bacta instead. She can splint his leg and check him for a concussion in a moment — and then move on to the next thing on her to do list, or maybe actually get around to finding Kanan.

“Look,” she says, tipping his chin up with one hand to inspect his scrapes and cuts and bruises. His eyes burn into hers, wary and guarded and somehow completely different from the ones she remembers glaring out from under that stupid helmet of his. “I’m not going to pretend your past doesn’t exist. No one is, least of all you, I think.”

He snorts at that; it takes her by surprise, and bacta goes dribbling down his chin and onto his collar. Oh, well; it’s not like he can be much _more_ of a mess at this point. And besides, she was on a roll — that’s what he gets for interrupting.

“We’re not going to forget,” Hera continues, as she rubs bacta into his wounds and stares at him as frankly as she can manage. “Not now, and maybe not ever. But you’ve done a lot of good now, too — and you’ve become one of us. And we take care of our own.”

 

* * *

 2: Chopper

* * *

 

Chopper despises organics.

There are, at best estimate — and his estimates are _always_ good, no matter what AP-5 says — 1.72 exceptions to this rule. Hera, of course, is the whole 1.00; the rest of the crew make up various portions of a unit, weighted according to how much Hera cares about them, how useful they are, and how much they do or don’t annoy him, among other things. But hatred doesn’t mean he can’t recognize their usefulness, or their needs, or how they won’t be able to fulfill their usefulness if their needs aren’t met.

He has been keeping a close watch on all of them lately — he’s no medi-droid, but he knows enough to understand that in times of great trauma, organics sometimes fail to adequately care for their own needs. So he has been watching, driving Hera back to her cabin when she tries to stay up indefinitely working on the _Ghost_ or outlining new mission parameters, prodding Kanan every once in a while when he starts to lose his focus and stare off into space with an especially ridiculous, pinched look on his face, making sure he riles Ezra up to keep the youngling active and prevent him from experiencing negative emotions for too sustained a period of time.

But there’s a brand-new organic aboard the _Ghost_ — one who Chopper hasn’t had time to factor into his estimations yet, meaning that number may go up, because Kallus is one of the more reasonable ones they’ve found yet. He’s no Hera, but he treats her with respect and calls her ‘Captain’ and _doesn’t_ call Chopper a rust-bucket. (Not that Chopper _cares_ — he doesn’t have feelings to hurt — but it’s a sign of disrespect, and it’s why Zeb keeps finding motor oil spilled across his pillow.)

And, unless Chopper has missed something, which would be _ridiculous,_ Kallus hasn’t eaten anything in nearly 24 standard hours.

This is a problem, obviously, because Chopper knows a thing or two about humans by this point. Some species can go for days without eating, but humans aren’t one of them — Maker, Ezra starts complaining after just _hours_ without shoving something edible into his moist, disgusting mouth. (Ugh. _Organics._ ) So at first, Chopper’s pretty certain that sooner or later Kallus will notice the issue and correct it on his own — there’s certainly plenty of food available on the ship. He would know; AP-5 lectured him for at _least_ an hour as he was overseeing their last restock of food supplies just days ago.

Chopper’s initial assessment is wrong, though. And Chopper doesn’t like being wrong.

Even when the rest of the crew gathers together to eat, Kallus keeps working. Chopper is about 70% certain that he is the only one who even notices; he doesn’t see the need to point it out to Hera, though, at least not yet. After all, it’s not interfering with the operation of the _Ghost_ yet — and _won’t_ , because Chopper is going to handle it.

Chopper is used to fixing problems before the organics in his life even notice them. It is his constant burden and always has been. This Kallus problem is no different.

Kallus has not given Chopper any real reason to doubt his logical capabilities, but _has_ failed to fix this problem himself without Chopper needing to get involved. So, he decides to take a middle-ground approach, somewhere between an auditory reminder to eat and restraining Kallus in order to shove food into him, as tempting as that is. But Chopper is sensible, instead: he throws a ration bar at him with considerable force.

Throwing things is something of a personal style choice for Chopper, anyway.

Kallus yelps when the little foil-wrapped package hits his shoulder — he should be grateful Chopper didn’t aim for any of the truly tender bits, honestly — and spins around. He’s in the cargo hold, and he has a data pad in his hands with a cargo manifest pulled up on the screen, and he is _working_ , as he has been consistently for _twenty-four hours_ , and his face is twisted up into some messy expression Chopper doesn’t care enough to decipher. (It’s not rage, at least, which is good, because if Kallus chose to be mad at Chopper for going out of his way to _help_ him, there might just be an incident detrimental to Kallus’ physical condition in the near future.)

Chopper stays still, the manipulator he’d used to throw the bar still extended, and waits for Kallus to react. When he doesn’t do so quickly enough for Chopper’s tastes, he gestures irritably at the bar and says, “Eat, you stupid —”

“I don’t speak binary,” Kallus interrupts, but he also reaches down slowly to pick up the bar, so Chopper considers that a relatively equivalent exchange.

“You should learn,” Chopper informs him, because he should. “But eat first.”

Kallus is clever, for an organic; he seems to have figured things out even if he _can’t_ speak binary, a deficit which frankly moves him that much closer to the ‘useless’ column in Chopper’s neural circuits. He tears open the wrapper of the bar, takes a bite, and all the while keeps looking at Chopper with that same ridiculous expression, his eyebrows pulled down low. Chopper watches carefully to ensure he chews and swallows.

“Thank you,” he says before taking his next bite, and Chopper bleats, satisfied, before rolling back out of the hold to return to his _actual_ duties.

He certainly hopes that this is the last time he has to deal with this particular issue… but he has his doubts.

 

* * *

 3: Ezra

* * *

 

Ezra yawns, his arms stretching over his head, and then does a double-take — he wasn’t expecting anyone else to be in the galley this early. He’s only up himself because, well… The occasional nightmare is one thing; he’s certainly used to them by this point. The real issue is that Zeb’s snoring makes it nearly impossible to get back to sleep once an ill-timed dream wakes him up. The _Ghost_ is quiet, empty, a little cooler than normal without everyone up and about. But here’s Kallus, sipping a cup of caf and reading something off the Holonet, looking _way_ too put together for 0430.

“Could you not sleep, or are you just always up this early?” Ezra asks, pausing to squint at him before walking over to the cabinets in search of something edible. At this hour of the not-quite-morning, the idea of most foods turns his stomach, but it’s worth a shot.

“The latter,” Kallus says. “Good morning, Jabba.”

Oh, no he didn’t. Not at _0430._ Ezra thought they were past this — or at least that Kallus had enough decency these days not to do that this kriffing early. He slams the cabinet door shut, since there was nothing particularly tempting in there anyway, and he needs something dramatic to do.

“Stop calling me that!”

He’s facing away, so he doesn’t see the way Kallus’ lips twitch upward. “Why?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be smart? Because it’s not my _name_ , that’s why.” Look, it’s entirely too early to come up with any truly good burns; he’s trying his best, okay?

Oh, thank the Force: there’s waffle batter waiting in the fridge. He’s not sure who to thank for that, but whoever it is is his new favorite crewmate.

“You don’t call me by _my_ real name,” Kallus says, which isn’t quite enough to harsh Ezra’s pre-waffle buzz as his digs around for the waffle iron, but it’s close. “Why should I call you by yours?”

Ezra narrows his eyes, looking up at him as he thunks the waffle iron down on the counter. “What do you mean?”

“I have a given name, and it isn’t Kallus.” He takes a long sip of caf and meets Ezra’s eyes for just long enough that Ezra can catch the amused glimmer there. Oh — he’s messing with him. Okay. He was gonna be pretty confused _and_ mad if Kallus were really upset about this, and his solution was to call Ezra dumb names. Kallus is the one who’s supposed to be the adult, after all.

Still… Ezra can’t exactly just let that lie, can he?

“No one knows your full name!” he protests, playing along now that he’s in on the joke.

Kallus snorts, an entirely undignified sound that makes Ezra look askance at him. “Plenty of people know it, including several aboard this ship. _You_ just haven’t asked, young master Hutt.”

Huh. He has to admit, that one surprises him a little. Thinking about it logically, he supposes someone has to have known; Rebel Command, like any military body, tends to frown upon not knowing the identities of the people who work for them. He wonders who on the _Ghost_ knows, though — Zeb, probably, and Hera, but does Kanan know? Does Rex? Sabine?

Ezra pours the batter into the waffle iron, and the galley lapses into silence. Kallus is evidently satisfied to just keep reading whatever it is that he’s reading and slowly drinking his caf.

Does he feel guilty for not knowing Kallus’ name? _Should_ he? The guy’s pretty private, and there’s still a long history of bad blood between him and the rest of the crew. But on the other hand, he’s working hard to counteract that history — he’s a _part_ of the crew now. And the idea that Ezra doesn’t know something so fundamental about one of his crewmates, and he’d never even realized that there was anything there to know, is… unsettling.

The waffles are done. Ezra takes them over to the table and sits across from Kallus, who obligingly moves his caf over a bit to make more room. He eats slowly, sneaking glances up at Kallus from time to time. He’s half-done with his meal when he finally cracks.

“What _is_ your name, then?”

Kallus actually looks surprised; he looks up from his reading to meet Ezra’s eyes, his brows creeping up towards his hairline. “I was only joking, Ezra. I’ve been just Kallus for years; it really doesn’t bother me.”

“I know,” Ezra assures him, waving a hand dismissively. “And I’m still gonna _call_ you Kallus. I mean, probably — I just don’t think anything else would feel right. But that doesn’t mean I don’t wanna know.”

And he’s almost surprised to find that it’s true; even as he’s saying it, he’s cataloguing the weird anxiety that’s suddenly cropped up in his gut, shaking his head at his own need to know. It’s probably kind of dumb. He’s really not going to just start calling Kallus something else all of a sudden — he’s _Kallus_. It’s just who he is. Besides, Zeb and Hera and whoever else knows don’t call him —

“Alexsandr,” Kallus says, his tone perfectly neutral. “My middle name is horrendous, like the name of any good upstanding member of the Coruscanti upper class, and you will learn it only when either you or I lay dying and not a moment before.”

Ezra considers that carefully, then discreetly wipes some syrup off of his hand so he can stick it out across the table and say, “Nice to meet you, Alexsandr.”

 

* * *

 4: Kanan

* * *

 

Usually, if there’s going to be a source of roiling discontent on the _Ghost_ , sending sharp waves of penitence and frustration through the Force, his name is Ezra. Sabine has her moments, too — so does everyone, really, but most of the time Ezra’s the only one whose darker feelings are strong enough to really draw Kanan’s attention, like a headache shifted slightly so that it’s obvious it’s not quite his own, but that he still can’t shake.

This is definitely not Ezra, though. Not today.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks, and hears Kallus jump about a foot in the air — which would really be all the proof he needs that something’s up, because Kallus is usually a little harder to sneak up on than that. Especially given that Kanan hadn’t actually been trying to sneak up on him.

“By all means,” Kallus murmurs, so Kanan takes the seat next to him.

The lounge is otherwise empty; unless Kanan’s very much mistaken, there’s no one else even on the ship, since everyone _else_ seems to know that a day off is not to be spent brooding in the lounge. That’s probably not what they teach in the Imperial Academies, though. Those guys seem to _love_ brooding.

Much as he knows this is a subject that needs to be addressed — the fact that he hadn’t been able to ignore the way Kallus’ distress coursed through the Force for more than five minutes was proof enough of that — that doesn’t make actually _addressing_ it any easier. Not least because it’s Kallus. If it were Sabine, Ezra, Zeb… hell, even Rex or Rau or Ketsu or one of their various strays, this would probably be easier. But it’s not: it’s _Kallus_. He’s been here long enough that Kanan trusts him, more or less; he believes that Kallus isn’t going to turn tail and run, or sell them out, or suddenly decide he’s changed his mind and he liked being Imperial after all. It’s been long enough that Kanan’s more than willing to let his guard down around the guy. But this, what he’s gearing up to try to do here, is a whole other thing entirely.

He’s talked to Hera about it, obviously. Not — not _now_ , not this _exact_ thing, but they’ve talked about Kallus, because they talk about everything. ( _Except for the things that_ really _matter_ , says a small, bitter voice at the back of his head, but he squashes that down.) Hera’s not exactly quick to trust, herself, and she certainly hadn’t given Kallus the same immediate acceptance that she’d extended to, say, Ezra, when he came on board. But when Kanan asked, she shared quiet, matter-of-fact observations with him: Kallus had desperately avoided medical care when they first picked him up after Atollon, and when she confronted him about it, he’d tried to tell her he was fine, despite the very visible evidence of the beating he’d taken at Thrawn’s hands. He works himself to the bone, constantly, as though afraid if he doesn’t, someone will tell him to leave. He’s always the first one up — a title that Hera herself had long held, which Kallus has only wrested from her by apparently never sleeping — and the last one to eat or pause for a rest. His tactical advice and analysis of a situation, when asked for or independently offered, is thorough, insightful, and often incredibly effective.

He’s a consummate rebel, is the point. And if Hera sees him that way, well… Kanan figures he can try his best to take that view, too.

Still: he’s not sure there’s a non-awkward way to approach the question he’s about to ask.

Here goes nothing.

“You ever tried meditating?” he asks blandly, and listens carefully enough to catch the sudden freeze before Kallus’ breathing resumes its normal pattern.

“I can’t say that I have, no,” Kallus responds after a moment, his tone measured and cautious. The pulse of his emotions in the Force — Kanan couldn’t ignore it if he tried, at such close range and with how unshielded Kallus is; seriously, it’s almost hilarious that ISB doesn’t train their people any better than this, though he supposes it’s not as though they really _need_ to — is mostly a knot of confusion, with wariness laced throughout. “Why do you ask?”

There’s the kicker. Kanan hums, reaching up to rub his chin. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but it doesn’t take a Jedi to tell you’re a little… upset. I think a Force-sensitive rock could probably figure it out.”

He can practically _hear_ Kallus’ spine stiffen. Ah, kriff. Maybe humor is not the right tactic, here.

“Sorry. Look, I’m not trying to — I just want to help,” he tries again, holding his hands up placatingly. “You’re throwing off some pretty harsh stuff. It’ll do no one any good for you to just stew in it.”

If Kanan were still a betting man — and after that incident with Calrissian and Chopper, he’s _really_ not anymore — he’d say that Kallus’ momentary hesitation was an internal struggle over whether or not to protest the word ‘stew’ specifically.

“While I appreciate the concern, I assure you, I’m fine,” he says eventually, which pretty much lines up with the things Hera had observed about him, not that Kanan’s surprised by that in the slightest.

“No offense, but I can tell that you’re not,” he says, with as much gentleness as he feels is appropriate (enough, hopefully, to convey that he’s _really_ not trying to take the piss, here, but not enough to scare Kallus off or make him think Kanan’s being condescending). “Like I said, you’re broadcasting pretty strongly to anyone with the slightest shred of Force-sensitivity.”

Kallus lets out a little sigh through his nose and doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

“I apologize if I’ve been upsetting you,” he says stiffly after a moment.

Force help him. “Not what I meant.”

“I know it’s not.” Kallus pauses again, then continues, with his voice still about as flexible as durasteel. “If you believe meditation would help reduce my impact on you and Ezra, then… I’m willing make an attempt.”

 _Ezra_ doesn’t go unnoticed; Kanan spares a moment to wonder when he stopped being _Bridger_ or, worse, _Jabba_ , and makes a mental note to ask Ezra about it later. But that’s not the point right now. Nor, for that matter, is the weird, self-sacrificing way Kallus had agreed; he’d agreed, that was the point.

“Okay,” Kanan says, stopping for a moment to consider the space they’re in. Normally, the lounge isn’t exactly a great spot for meditation, because it’s one of the busiest places on the ship. But no one’s here right now — it’s just the two of them — so why move if they don’t have to? They’re already sitting in a quiet place, with about as few distractions as they’re likely to find on the _Ghost_. “Let’s get started.”

Kallus startles a little. “You meant _now_?”

“No time like the present. Why, you got something more important to be doing?” Normally, he wouldn’t take that gamble, because as Hera had so observantly pointed out, Kallus literally _always_ seems to be working — but it’s their day off, and that means all of them, and he knows that _Kallus_ knows that if word gets back to Hera that any member of her crew is risking burnout by refusing to take their mandated downtime, well. The kids don’t call her ‘Mama Hera’ behind her back for no good reason.

So, “No,” Kallus admits, and Kanan grins at him.

“Then okay. Let’s get started,” he repeats, and automatically starts to shift into a more meditative pose. The normal position is a bit tricky on the cushioned lounge seats, and anyway he hasn’t really started yet, but he straightens his back and lets his hands pool loosely in his lap. Kallus doesn’t say anything, but from the quiet sounds of him shifting around, Kanan would guess that he’s copying his movements.

“I’ll talk you through it, since you’re a first-timer,” Kanan says, already mentally running through a checklist of steps and stages and trying to figure out how to teach them to an adult, hopefully without talking down to him. It helps that Ezra doesn’t much tolerate being treated with kid gloves; teaching either him _or_ Kallus is miles away from when Kanan had first been taught to meditate as a youngling in the creche.

Kallus makes a soft sound of assent, and Kanan nods. Well, no time like the present, then.

“Close your eyes.”

He waits a few moments, trusting Kallus to follow his instructions, since he has no real way of figuring out if he doesn’t.

“Okay,” he says after a moment, “now bring your attention to your breathing. Don’t try to force it, just breathe naturally.”

This one, of course, he can hear: Kallus’ breathing is unnaturally even at first, but the longer Kanan waits, the more it levels out.

Kanan has always seen the Force as a web: connections linking back and forth and back again between every living thing, crossing over and weaving between one another. Beings, then, are vertices, points of intersection, where the lines cross and come together; the more connected they are to the world around them, the more they’re tangled up in the web.

The Force is tangled so tightly around Kallus that if Kanan didn’t know better, he’d worry the web was going to snap. It’s like he’s pushing and pulling at the same time, and he’s more deeply connected than Kanan might have guessed, already tightly enmeshed with the crew. He’s a tension point, though, straining the web around him, his anxiety and guilt and fear and whatever else it is he’s beating himself over the head with leaking out along his connections and making the whole thing dark and taut.

As they sit there, the two of them, breathing together, the tension lets up a little, but not nearly as much as Kanan had hoped, and after a moment, Kallus starts to twitch and fidget. Okay, time to amp it up a little.

“Feel the way your breath moves through your body,” Kanan says. “Focus on that, not on anything else.”

Kallus makes another small, affirmative noise, but he's still not settling, which Kanan supposes really isn’t _that_ surprising. Meditation can be quite difficult to get used to, even — sometimes especially — for those who already have disciplined minds. Finding quiet and slow peace can be a hard adjustment from analytical thinking, and an almost impossible change from the shrieking of battle; if that’s what you’re used to, sitting still with your legs folded up and thinking about nothing might seem an impossible task. Add on top of that the fact that he’s pretty sure Kallus should be getting some attention from the shrinks back at base, and his fidgeting and the tension he’s pushing out into the Force in great spikes really ought to be expected.

In hindsight, maybe he should have gone with something a little more familiar, combat-focused; lightsaber forms can probably be adapted to a bo-rifle or any other kind of staff-like weapon with a little effort. Oh well — it’s too late now. That will have to wait.

“Form follows function,” Kanan says slowly, the words as familiar by now as the act of meditation or the feeling of the Force itself, “and function may be found in form.”

Kallus makes a soft _tch_ noise; Kanan can all but hear him frown, and he finally speaks. “What does that mean?”

He probably wouldn’t appreciate being told how much he reminds Kanan of Ezra in that moment, so Kanan just shrugs instead, a bare movement of shoulders while he more or less maintains his meditative pose.

“It’s just something my master used to say, way back when,” he explains. “The Jedi bullshit-to-Basic translation is… fake it ‘til you make it, I guess.”

“Fake it ‘til you make it.” It’s not a question; Kallus’ voice is totally flat. It doesn’t take an expert to tell he’s about thirty seconds from giving up and walking out. If anything, after that slight, initial dip, he seems to have only gotten _more_ tense. Whatever it is that’s swirling around inside his head, clearly he’s having trouble focusing on it.

“Yeah. Focusing on the act itself, rather than trying to clear your mind, can be…” Oh, stars. He’s going to have to have a real feelings talk with Kallus. There’s no avoiding that now.

Really, he got himself into this, anyway.

“What is it that’s got you so worked up?”

For a moment, he thinks the direct approach was the wrong idea, and Kallus is about to walk out after all. The air practically freezes, and the metaphorical tension in the Force is suddenly real and palpable, thick enough Kanan could probably cut it with his ‘saber if he tried.

But then Kallus almost reluctantly says, “Today is… not a good day for me,” and Kanan lets out his breath in a _whoosh_ that he hopes isn’t too audible. He understands that, at least; every member of the crew knows not to mess with him on Empire Day. This is something they could _all_ probably relate to, actually.

“Lost someone?” he guesses. Kallus hums.

“My first command.” The admission is stilted, and a little cautious, but — without his even noticing it — his breathing has evened out. Kanan wonders if his eyes are still closed, but either way, clearly classical Jedi meditation isn’t going to work here, anyway; they’ll have to forge a new path.

“You feel guilty for their loss?”

“Yes and no,” Kallus says, slowly. Is this the first time he’s talked about it? Kanan doubts it, but he also doubts that it’s a regular occurance. Kallus certainly doesn’t seem entirely comfortable with it, but the longer he goes on, the more steady his voice gets. “I feel guilty for the effect it had on me. For what it made me into. And for the effect it _has_ on me — for still being upset about it, even now.”

Because now that he’s a Rebel, he shouldn’t be concerned with the loss of a few Stormtroopers. That makes… a frightening amount of sense.

“I guarantee no one on this ship will fault you for grieving them,” he says quietly. Kallus’ next breath out is a sigh, and Kanan is just this side of mystified when he realizes that that sigh seems to have carried a lot of the tension out with it. Kallus feels… looser, somehow, in the Force. Not all the way, but it’s a start.

“I know,” he admits.

Kanan hesitates, then reaches out to grasp his shoulder. Kallus startles enough that it seems like he must _have_ had his eyes closed this whole time. Meditation, it seems, can grow and change, just like everything else about the Jedi Order has had to grow and change in the last two decades.

And it’s a little bit of a shock how relieved he feels that Kallus seems to have had a weight lifted off his shoulders — because it’s not just relief that he’s no longer pouring enough anxiety into the Force to give Kanan a headache, it’s relief at the idea that he’s feeling better, because Kanan… actually cares that he’s feeling better. He pictures himself from a few years ago walking in on this situation and has to hold back a snort of laughter.

Well, this seems to be working so far. There’s no reason to stop now.

“Tell me about them?” he asks, and Kallus does.

 

* * *

 5: Sabine

* * *

 

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but do you have a minute?”

She turns around. She has to admit — though it’s been months now, and really, she knows better; not only is she a gods-damned Mandalorian warrior, but _she_ used to be an Imperial, too — that she’s still a bit wigged out by being alone with Kallus. Not that he hasn’t been perfectly nice since… everything, but, well, the guy’s kind of creepy, if you ask her. Even if he _hadn’t_ spent a good portion of the last few years trying to kill her and her family, she’s pretty sure he wouldn’t exactly be her favorite.

Still. He’s got this carefully-schooled neutral expression on his face that tells her he’s hiding something genuine and vulnerable, and last week he sided with her against Ezra in a debate over who got the last of the really good-tasting protein bars. She can hear him out, at least.

“What’s up?” she asks, idly shaking her spray paint. Her voice is a bit muffled behind the filtration mask she’s wearing. Hera would still kill her for spray-painting in her tiny cabin, even _with_ the mask, but Hera’s out and about on base right now and shouldn’t be back for hours — and in the meantime, what she doesn’t know (yet) can’t hurt her.

Sabine is working on designing some new stencils; she prefers to freehand things, generally, but the stencils are good for doing quick work when they’re out on a mission and she barely has time to tag and run. They’re an artistic crutch she doesn’t exactly like, but she can recognize the necessity.

A bit like Kallus, really.

He clears his throat, hovering in the doorway to her quarters. “Have — ah. Have you ever designed a tattoo?”

She feels her eyebrows practically disappear into her hairline, and takes off her mask. Kallus isn’t exactly her mental image of the kind of guy who would ever deign to get a tattoo. _Maybe it’s for someone else,_ she thinks — but if it were for someone else, he probably wouldn’t look so uncomfortable, would he? And he probably would have lead with that, too.

“Once or twice,” she says a little elusively — she can’t help it, okay, she’s curious. She’s going to draw out absolutely as much information from him as she can before she gives away much of anything herself. “It’s not too much of a stretch from my normal work; my style converts well. Why do you ask?”

He coughs lightly. “I was wondering if I could commission you to craft a design for me.”

“ _Really_.” She draws the word out to about three or four times its normal length, not even bothering to try and hide the shit-eating grin that she can feel taking over her face. “You want a tattoo, Captain Sideburns?”

“I have an old one,” he explains, tapping a location high on his upper arm; it’s covered, of course, but Sabine is now absolutely _dying_ of curiosity, which almost — _almost_ — overrides her queasiness at the thought of having to see Kallus shirtless. “ISB. We all got them at the Academy, right before being given our first postings. It was a… rite of passage.”

Oh. _Oh_. That makes a lot of sense, then.

“You want a coverup?”

“You’re sharp.” His tone is flat and neutral, just this side of polite; this isn’t an interrogation, but stars, does she wish it was. She has about a billion questions about what kind of ridiculous, clinically-boring bullshit probably goes into the designs of Imp tattoos. Still, he’s being pretty nice to her, and he _did_ offer to pay. Not like one of those sleemos on base who assume she’ll do what they want for free just because they’re comrades-in-arms, or — worse — _‘for exposure_.’ Working to defeat the Empire does work toward getting you in her good books, but Sabine also has personal standards about fair compensation for her work, thanks. There’s a very, very short list of beings in this galaxy who she’ll just _gift_ art to, and Kallus isn’t one of them. (Yet.)

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Captain. Flattery and a commission fee, anyway.”

He smiles — a real, genuine smile — and she’s a bit surprised to notice that he actually looks relieved. Maybe this has been weighing on him.

“You have anything particular in mind?”

He shrugs, the movement so slight it’s practically a microexpression. “I’d like to incorporate the Fulcrum symbol. Beyond that, I leave it up to your artistic vision.”

She sits there and studies him and almost, almost asks him what he’s after, here. What’s the point? He could just get the tattoo removed if he doesn’t want it anymore — and she can certainly understand why he wouldn’t want that kind of a reminder permanently inked into his skin. The removal process is painful, but he doesn’t exactly strike her as the kind of person who’s averse to a little bit of pain if it’s in the way of something he wants.

But Sabine’s smarter than that — she doesn’t need to ask. After a moment’s consideration, she thinks she knows _exactly_ what he’s doing. This thing, it isn’t about just striking out the physical markers of his past, acting as though they were never there; it’s about actively replacing them, taking the spaces that were once turned to cruelty and putting something else in their place.

Ultimately, she thinks, it’s just a tattoo. It’s not anything especially like atonement, but the other stuff is harder, maybe impossible. It’s out of his hands, a little bit, whether or not anyone ever decides he’s _atoned_ for what he did to them in the past. This one little thing, though — this tiny act of bodily autonomy — this, he can do.

With her help, of course.

 

* * *

 +1: Zeb

* * *

 

Alexsandr is relatively certain that there is not a single thing in the entire galaxy that could make him regret his decision to leave the Empire. Nothing — even the tactics of people like Saw Gerrera, before he and his Partisans had split off from the Rebel Alliance proper; even the knowledge that they could very well fail at any time, and another Rebellion might not rise up in his lifetime — _nothing_ can outweigh the fact that he has gone from being an agent of oppression, suffering, and hatred to something _just_ , working for the betterment of all, but especially those who are most downtrodden. What could possibly combat that?

Well. Yavin IV’s climate comes close.

Lothal got hot sometimes, certainly; the Coruscant of his childhood could occasionally feel like a death trap of burning metal and glass, sunlight reflecting off of every surface and being infinitely amplified. But Yavin is _humid_ ; even at a relatively mild temperature, it can very well feel like he’s being boiled alive. Inside the temples is alright, really. Either the Massassi had been true masters of architecture and designed their buildings successfully to stay cool and dry, or the Rebellion had installed dehumidifiers when they moved in. Perhaps both. Whatever the case, it’s having to go outside that’s the real trouble.

Then again, he supposes it could be worse: they could be on some sort of ice moon. Perish the thought.

At any rate, he’s currently holed up just inside the main temple, the shade and whatever marvel of ancient architecture and/or modern technology doing a wonderful job of keeping him cool for the moment as he steels himself to go outside.

“Hey!” a familiar voice calls from behind him; he knows far before he turns around to look that it’s Zeb. He’s weaving through the crowd flowing into the temple, coming over to Alexsandr’s little hiding spot, looking tired and worn but smiling all the same. The smile can’t quite hide the way his jumpsuit is soaked through with sweat, though. Alexsandr can sympathize; it’s particularly hot today.

“You look even worse than I feel,” Alexsandr tells him frankly as he draws closer, gesturing to encompass Zeb’s entire body, though he finds he can’t help the hint of a tease that catches in his throat on the way out. Zeb shoots him a look that’s half-affronted and half amused.

“Yeah, well, this place is a hellhole,” he grouses, which, while Alexsandr might not have put it in those exact words, is certainly not an unfamiliar or unwelcome sentiment.

“Not used to the heat?” He can’t imagine what it would be like to have _fur_ in this climate. Being forced to wear clothing is bad enough.

Zeb shrugs. “Lasan wasn’t exactly tropical.” _As you well know_ hangs in the air — or maybe that’s just Alexsandr’s imagination. “It’s not so much the heat, though — it’s the _wet_.”

“I know _exactly_ what you mean,” Alexsandr says with feeling, and something about that has Zeb tipping back his head and laughing.

“Can’t take the cold _or_ the heat, eh?” he teases, chortling, and Alexsandr narrows his eyes at him. That’s a low blow, even if it _does_ mirror his own train of thought from earlier pretty exactly.

Zeb doesn’t need to know how well he knows him, after all. Down that road lies uncharted and distinctly dangerous territory — and they simply don’t have time for that. There’s a war to fight, as Alexsandr has been telling himself in the solitude of his own bunk for what feels like eons now. War doesn’t allow any time for the little shiver that runs up his spine whenever Zeb cuts just a little too close to the quick, seemingly without even realizing it.

Force. He’s been standing here silent for way too long, caught going in circles in his own head. What were they talking about again?

“It’s not exactly unusual to prefer a more balanced, temperate climate,” he says primly, in what he frankly considers to be a very good approximation of his normal poking-fun-at-his-own-snobbishness voice, with just the right extra ounce of Coruscanti posh to it, but there’s something about it that’s ever-so-slightly off. He can hear it, and he watches Zeb hear it, too; he can read it in the way his ears flick back and then forward again almost too fast to catch and the shadow that passes over his face. _Kriff_. He’s going to have to remedy this quickly.

“I do think I’ve found the one truly refreshing place on base, though,” he blurts suddenly, and his voice is uncontrolled and a little rough, but Zeb at least seems willing to take the bait.

“Oh?” he says, and Alexsandr doesn’t even try to hold back his sharp smile.

Not long after he’d first set foot on Yavin IV, he had discovered that one of the smaller temples, which was mostly used as a sort of makeshift warehouse to hold munitions, medical supplies, and other non-perishables, was set partially into the side of a steep hill. What with the thick, lush canopy of trees masking most of the topographical details of the surrounding land, it had taken trekking through the forest for a while to find anything, cutting his way through especially dense patches of undergrowth and half-heartedly praying that he wouldn’t be attacked by any local wildlife. But just when he had been considering accepting defeat, he discovered that there was a place at the top of that hill where the plant growth thinned out, a little stream wound across the ground, and just at the top of the hill it was as though he had broken through the canopy and was standing in the sky.

He hadn’t told anyone then, and he still hasn’t; it isn’t exactly strategically relevant, and rebel or not, he’s still a selfish enough person that he doesn’t want this beautiful little place covered up with other beings all desperately trying to cool off on the especially hot and sticky days.

But Zeb, well. Zeb is a different story.

Alexsandr leads him through the forest, an easier task now that he not only knows where he’s going, but has gone there often enough in the past that there’s at least a semblance of a path worn through the vegetation. Zeb follows quietly behind him. The sound of their breathing and their footsteps blends smoothly with the quiet hum of the forest around them, but neither of them says anything, especially not as the ground beneath their feet gets steeper and steeper as they work around the outside of the temple and up towards the sky.

The silence is just starting to approach awkward when the light filtering through the trees starts to get brighter and brighter and, all at once, they finally crest the top of the hill.

He lets out a deep sigh of relief and moves aside as soon as he gets up to the little clearing, leaving room for Zeb to come up behind him and take a look around. The sky above their heads is bright and clear and impossibly blue; it’s the height of the afternoon, but up here, with a cool breeze cutting through the heat and humidity, you’d never guess it.

“Wow,” Zeb says under his breath, and Alexsandr sneaks a look out of the corner of his eye to see the awe that’s shining openly from his face.

He has no idea what to say to that, so instead he says, “It turns out all you have to do to escape the weather is get up above the trees,” and it sounds stupid and inane even as he says it, and he hates himself for it a little bit — when did he get soft and twisted up like this? Alexsandr Kallus is not a man who _ever_ fails to be in control of his words. At least, he never used to be.

Zeb doesn’t seem to mind, though.

He’s grinning and looking at Alexsandr with a degree of shrewdness that’s frankly uncomfortable, and, even after everything, still a little bit unexpected. “This your secret place, then?”

Alexsandr can’t help but roll his eyes at that.

“That’s a bit of a dramatic way to put it, don’t you think?”

“Not if it’s true, it’s not.”

He laughs quietly. All right, maybe that’s fair. Zeb’s not exactly wrong, after all.

“Then fine. Yes, it is my secret place,” he says. “And now you’re in on the secret — which I fully expect you to keep to yourself. I don’t want to catch Bridger up here, getting _eau de teenager_ all over everything.”

Zeb laughs quietly at that; Alexsandr catches himself swaying towards him a little bit to take in the little nuances of the sound that threaten to get carried away on the breeze and leans back maybe a little bit too quickly.

“Don’t worry, I don’t want him mucking this up either,” Zeb promises.

Somehow, Alexsandr isn’t quite sure they’re talking about the clearing anymore.

He coughs lightly, forcing himself to look away from Zeb and out over the treetops instead. In his peripheral vision, he sees Zeb do the same, putting a hand up to shade his eyes.

It strikes him that this is probably the most privacy they’ve had since Bahryn; the only creatures who have any idea that they’re nearby are the local fauna making gentle noise all around them. There are no crewmates or Rebel commanders or ill-tempered droids or anything else around to interrupt, disturb them, or eavesdrop.

This may have been a tactical error, but Alexsandr is realizing that far too late for it to be of any use.

The silence between them seems like it’s stretching on far too long, but what is he supposed to say? He already feels exposed, like he’s shown Zeb far more than he intended; what had been meant as an expression of sympathy about the rotten weather suddenly seems like a confession he hadn’t known he was making until it was already done. And now Zeb is standing next to him — close enough, Alexsandr suddenly realizes, that every so often their arms brush; how had he not realized that already, when did he become so easy to surprise? — and all he can do is just stare out at the trees and listen to the wind whistle. Every word he thinks to say seems to die in his mouth.

“Thank you.”

He turns. There is something incredibly vulnerable and uncertain and gentle in Zeb’s expression, though his voice is steady. Alexsandr has to clear his throat three times before any words come out, which he hopes goes unnoticed, though his expectations are low enough to be realistic.

“What?”

“Thank you,” Zeb repeats, gesturing out with one arm to encompass everything: this little hilltop, the Rebel base hidden in the trees below them, the sky, the wind, Alexsandr. “It’s nice up here; I needed this. So thank you.”

Alexsandr swallows. “You’re... welcome.”

Zeb shakes his head and laughs, the sound rumbling through the air. “You don’t have to sound so unsure about it,” he teases, and Alexsandr’s hackles rise mostly because he knows that’s what’s expected of him, and it feels safe, like the right way for the situation to play out.

“I’m sorry my response wasn’t _certain_ enough for you,” he snipes back, but it’s mostly for show anyway; his heart’s not in it. He’s certain that his face is probably beaming out all sorts of emotions he’d rather not reveal, and he knows Zeb well enough by now that hoping he simply won’t pick up on anything seems pointless.

The two of them lapse into silence again, but this time Zeb’s gaze is locked onto him, rather than out over the horizon, and Alexsandr finds that he can’t look away, either. Zeb’s eyes wander over his face, his brow furrowed slightly; whatever it is he’s looking for, he suddenly seems to find it. He laughs again, so softly this time that the wind completely steals away the sound, and shakes his head.

“Come on,” he says, voice uncharacteristically gentle in a way that makes Alexsandr’s mouth dry. “We should get back down there before we’re missed.”

And he turns and starts to work his way back down the hill, disappearing quickly under the cover of the trees. Alexsandr hesitates for just a moment longer, watching him go, before he slowly begins to follow.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, come hang out with me on [Tumblr](http://floralegia.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/akaparalian)!


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